


My Head is Full of Magic, Baby

by everytimeyougo



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Drama, F/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everytimeyougo/pseuds/everytimeyougo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Some doctor you are, Cameron. Do I look dead to you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: What is this? A H/C WIP? How the heck did this happen? I blame sharp2799 - one quick beta job for her and they are back in my head.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own House, Cameron, or any other fictional doctors. Title from So Alive by Love and Rockets. Unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine.

 

 

She was supposed to be off at six, but then came word of the bus accident. Thirty kids were on their way home from a hockey tournament. The driver hit a patch of black ice five miles from home and the bus landed on its roof in the ditch. Thankfully, bumps and bruises were the main result, along with a couple of concussions, a broken wrist, and a stress induced asthma attack. She refuses to think about how much worse it could have been. If they'd still been driving at highway speeds…

It's nearing ten when she finally pulls on her coat and slings her bag over her shoulder. Megan is at Tim's tonight, as per their newly inked custody agreement, and she almost wishes for another emergency just so she doesn't have to go home to her empty house and face her first Christmas Eve alone in years. Almost, but she can't. She can't wish tragedy on another family just so she doesn't have to be by herself.

"Good night, Janice," she calls to the intake nurse seated behind the cluttered ER desk. "Merry Christmas."

"Thanks Dr. C. You too." Janice is a divorced mom too, on her off-year of alternating holidays. The two women exchange sympathetic smiles before Cameron turns to leave.

Pulling on her gloves and zipping up her coat under her chin, she pushes her way out the ER side door and into the cold, Chicago night. It had snowed while she was working, though it's stopped now, and a blanket of the white stuff covers the staff parking lot, cars and sidewalks. A maze of footprints leads to and from the door to the cars, mingling with tire tracks and other whirls and scuffs.

Her car is at the far end, on the right. The lot had been jam packed when she arrived during the day, but now, with the hospital down to a skeleton crew, it's less than half full. There are no cars within several spots of hers and the snow is undisturbed.

Almost. Almost undisturbed.

A single set up footprints leads up to the passenger side of her car. She frowns. Someone mistaking her car for their own? Or…Tim? It must have been Tim. She tries to remember whether he has a key to her car. It's possible, though what he'd want in her car, she can't imagine. Maybe Megan had left something in there? A teddy or a book?

She examines the footprints as she walks, trying to determine whether there is a set leading away from the car superimposed on the ones going towards it. She can't tell. There is an odd scuffed line following along the right side of the prints, but she can't tell if the footprints themselves are all facing the same direction.

Shrugging, she walks toward her car, digging her keys out of her bag as she goes. She points the key at the car and the instant she clicks the unlock button is the instant she notices the man slouched in the front passenger seat.

Her heart leaps into her throat and she stops in her tracks, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. What the hell! Who is that? She looks around wildly for help, but there is no one in sight. The hospital, she's got to go back into the hospital! She'll call the police from inside.

As she begins to back quickly away, the passenger door opens. The man, alerted to her presence by the click of the unlocking door, is struggling to emerge from the car. Her hand falls away from her mouth and she stares, slack-jawed, as he straightens up and starts toward her.

He's older, thinner, grayer. The years haven't been particularly kind to him. But there is no mistaking who it is that now stands before her.

"But…but you're dead," she informs Gregory House.

He laughs. "Some doctor you are, Cameron. Do I look dead to you?"

* * *

Inside the hospital cafeteria, Cameron warms her still-chilled hands on her cup of coffee as House finishes his story. She holds no doubt that what she's just received is a highly edited version of the last five years, but at the same time, there's a ring of truth in what he's said. His description of the months spent with Wilson before he passed jives with what she knows from Wilson himself. He'd told her much the same story in the brief email updates she'd received from him before his death, though he hadn't mentioned that his companion in his last days had been House.

She has to pause to wonder then: had she known all along? If House had resurfaced after Wilson's death, would she have been surprised? Maybe. Probably not. But so much time has passed by now, that any lingering suspicions had long since been extinguished.

He claims to have been living more or less as a vagrant these last few years, though a well-funded one, thanks to money Wilson had funneled to him. He spent his time traveling from town to town, working when he felt like it, veering between sober and, she suspects, far worse off than he's admitting. He seems clean now, but she knows him far too well to take that for fact.

"With Jimmy gone, I didn't know what else to do. I hadn't gotten that far in the plan before the roof caved in," he tells her, his blue eyes still bright in his lined and gray-toned face. "Gregory House was dead." He shrugs. "Dead is dead. No cure for that."

"Why didn't you call me, come to see me before now?" she asks, reaching across the small table and touching the back of his hand. "I could have helped you. Done…something." What, she has no idea. How do you bring a dead man back to life? Perhaps she should have watched more soap operas in her youth.

"You were married, had a kid. Last thing you needed was me showing up on your doorstep when you were finally happy, free of me, free of the past. I'm an ass, but even I'm not that selfish." He pulls his hand from her reach, scratches the back of his head, and drops it into his lap.

Yes you are, she thinks. If he wanted something from her, he wouldn't have hesitated to turn her life upside down. Exhibit A is sitting right in front of her. But she doesn't press the point.

"I'm not married anymore," she volunteers instead. "Widowed once, divorced twice and just barely forty. Happy and free aren't exactly the words I'd choose." Her voice catches, and she lifts her coffee cup back to her lips, sipping away the irritation in the back of her throat.

He nods. "I know. That's why I'm here now."

Of course he knows; she should have realised. "You think because there's not another man in my life right now, that you can manipulate me into helping you." It's not a question.

He grins wolfishly. "Merry Christmas, Cameron."

 


	2. Chapter 2

She takes him home with her. Of course she does.

Christmas lights are aglow on her roof and shrubbery and the interior of her car twinkles blue, green, and red as they pull into the driveway. The lights reflect back at her from House's eyes as he turns to her and whistles lowly.

"You've moved up in the world," he comments, taking in her large Cape Cod with its huge covered front porch and extensive landscaping. The grass and rock gardens are covered with fluffy white snow, and the snowman she and Megan made yesterday stands guard beside the walkway leading from the drive to the house, its jaunty red plaid scarf flapping in the breeze.

"Temporarily," she replies without rancor. "I'm sure you've noted the For Sale sign." Her husband…ex-husband…had done well for himself long before she ever met him. He was fine with Cameron and their daughter keeping the family home, and with paying the alimony that would allow it, but to her it felt an awful lot like restitution. Her husband had fallen in love with another woman. That did  _not_  make her a victim. "I'll be getting a smaller place as soon as this one sells. But in the meantime, I have plenty of room for a  _short-term_  houseguest," she says, stressing the time period. Flashing him a quick smile, she reaches for the door handle.

Once inside, House drops his coat on the floor of the foyer and begins wandering from room to room, poking at this and that, opening drawers and picking up books, and she's torn between admonishing him for his rudeness and smiling at the familiarity of the scene unfolding before her. It reminds her of various break and enters committed during her fellowship, House limping through some poor sick person's home, trying to determine what lies they'd told. Only rarely did she and House visit a patient's home alone together, but the occasions they had were certainly memorable.

"Remember the time," she begins, about to mention a ride she'd taken on the back of his motorcycle one time, but she thinks better of it. The past is better left alone, for so many reasons, not the least of which is self-protection. He doesn't need her help in whatever plan he's hatching to rope her back into his insanity. Fortunately he's out of earshot now anyway, and hadn't heard her slip. She picks up his coat and hangs it in the closet.

"Got anything to eat?" he asks, already rooting through her large, professional-grade refrigerator, when she finds him in the kitchen. He pulls out a couple of cartons of Chinese food. "These still good?" He opens one and sniffs the contents.

"Since when do you care?" she asks. "I remember you eating week-old Chinese food you found under your desk."

"You're right, I don't," he concedes, rifling through a drawer for a fork. "So, where's the kid?" He nods at a picture of Megan stuck to the refrigerator with a Hello Kitty magnet.

Well now, there's a reason to be grateful for alternating holidays. House and her daughter don't belong in the same universe, let alone the same room. "The kid has a name, House. It's Megan. She's six years old and you will not be meeting her. She's with her father for Christmas this year. She's gone until New Year's Day."

"Hrmph," he replies, his mouth full of chicken chop suey. Chewing and nodding, he drops the food carton on the counter and pulls a can of soda from the fridge. "You're divorced. Why?" he asks, after a drink.

"You're a rude, nosy jerk," she answers, smirking. "Why?"

He laughs, short and sharp, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Feisty," he says. "I like it."

She shrugs nonchalantly. "That mattered to me once, what you like. Doesn't anymore." Gesturing to the chop suey, she adds, "Throw that away if you're done with it, and I'll show you to your room."

House picks up the carton, stuffs the remainder of the chop suey in his mouth and tosses the carton in the sink. "Lead the way," he mumbles around his mouthful of food, giving a sweeping gesture towards the rest of the house with his cane.

She takes him down the hall, shows him to the main floor guest suite, and leaves him there with his bag of belongings to wash up and settle in, or whatever it is he intends to do. With any luck, he'll just go to sleep and she won't have to talk to him again until she has time to process everything that's happened tonight and remember how exactly to deal with him without losing herself. She feels a bit like Pamela Ewing must have felt when she opened that shower curtain to find her dead husband calmly soaping up. If only House's death had all been a bad dream and he could go back to his old life tomorrow, but she knows whatever happens next won't be that easy. Going out to the living room, she collapses onto the sofa and closes her eyes.

* * *

A short time later, she awakens to the melancholy melody of  _I'll Be Home for Christmas_. Opening her eyes, she finds House seated at the piano, his eyes closed, his long fingers moving over the keys as if they were a part of him. If he notices her stirring on the sofa, he doesn't let on, playing the song to completion before working his way through  _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_  and  _It Came Upon a Midnight Clear_. She starts to laugh when he moves on to  _Santa Baby_  and he winks at her over his shoulder.

He's plugged in the Christmas lights and turned on the propane fireplace. There is a mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table in front of her, still warm, judging by the steam rising from it.

"You've made yourself at home," she comments when he finishes playing.

"I knew that's what you would want," he says with faux gravity. "Don't worry; I snooped, but you're very boring. Didn't find anything good."

"Uh, thanks. I think." She picks up her hot chocolate and takes a sip. "What time is it?"

"Just after one."

She makes a face. "I should go to bed. I have to work tomorrow." She sets her mug on the coffee table and stands, yawning.

House nods and turns back to the piano. His fingers migrate back to the keys, stroking them almost absentmindedly before pressing down. She recognises the first notes of  _Please Come Home for Christmas._ Smiling to herself, she walks over to the archway leading to the hall. She doesn't know why he's here, and she knows there will most likely come a time when she wishes he wasn't, but right now, she is just so very glad to see him. Gregory House, here in her living room, playing her piano: her own little Christmas miracle.

She listens from the doorway until the song ends, then climbs the stairs to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

House is still in his room when she leaves for work the next morning. Tentatively, she calls his name through the door, but while she can hear movement within, there's no response. It's probably for the best. She's not sure what to say to him anyway. I missed you? I'm glad you're not dead? Both true, but the House she used to know would not have welcomed the sentiment. Back-from-the-dead House seems much the same, hot chocolate and sappy Christmas songs notwithstanding. She leaves a note instead: Home at 6, will bring food. Call if you need anything, numbers on fridge–AC.

Traffic is light to non-existent on her usual route to the hospital, the roads slippery from the previous night's snow, but with no one behind her, she can take it slow. The sun isn't quite up yet, but most of the houses she passes are alive with light. Families are getting up and starting their Christmas mornings, kids ripping into presents while their parents snap pictures and sip coffee. She imagines Megan is waking up about now and running from her bedroom to the living room, marveling as only a six year old can, at the presents Santa left while she was sleeping. She wishes she could see it. She wishes things were different.

But they're not. They're not and the best she can hope for from Christmas this year is an easy day in the ER.

It's a vain hope, as it turns out, but then she knew it would be. Christmas, the holiday most known for hearth and home and family, is also the worst one for domestic violence, drug overdoses, and suicide. And that's not even counting the sad people who find feigning illness and sitting in a hospital waiting room preferable to being home, possibly cold and hungry, and most definitely alone.

By the time her shift is over, all she wants to do is cry, cry for the poor souls she's cared for today, cry for House, for Wilson, cry for herself. She wants to hug her daughter. She wants to rewind her life to happier times, to when she and Tim and Megan were a family spending Christmas Day together, when she was the mother watching her daughter open presents from Santa, and it was her husband playing Christmas carols on the piano instead of a dead man she used to know long ago in another lifetime.

But she can't have that, so instead she pulls out her phone. It's six o'clock, the time the legal document which now rules her life says she is allowed to call her daughter. Right or wrong, happy about it or not, this is the way it is now.

She talks to Megan for ten minutes or so, managing to keep the tears out of her voice, if not her eyes. Her daughter is beyond excited, chatting happily about Santa and presents, including a new puppy: something that's possible in a home with a stay-at-home stepmother, but not one headed by a single, working mom. And the best part comes at the end of the conversation: her daughter is going to be a big sister. Tim's new love, the woman he left Cameron for, the woman he married as soon as the ink was dry on their divorce papers, is pregnant.

She had wanted a second child when Megan was a year old. Tim said no; he thought one was enough. Now, single and over forty, it's too late for her.

She tries so hard to keep bitterness out of her mind, her heart, her life. But right now it's all too much. Fuck him, she thinks. Fuck them both. It's just not fair!

Half running down the corridor and out of the hospital, she allows the side staff door to slam behind her, then leans up against it, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan. She breathes deeply of the cold December air, wrapping her arms around her middle and leaning forward slightly, ducking her head against the wind.

"No coat in this cold?" a voice asks from somewhere in front of her. "Not that I'm complaining, but the view would be a little better if you'd move your arms out of the way."

House. Fabulous. Just what she needs.

He comes into view from around the corner of the brick building, dressed in a black woolen coat with a grey scarf, black leather gloves and grey wool flat cap dusted with snow. He stops, leaning on his cane in front of her.

She crosses her arms more tightly across her chest. "What are you doing here?" she asks, damp eyes narrowed with suspicion. If he notices the moisture freezing on her cheeks, he makes no comment.

"You promised me food." He pokes at the snow piled up beside the door with his cane.

"I promised to bring home food."

Holding his cane like a golf club he chips snow at her. "I was bored at home."

Glaring at him, she reaches down and dusts the icy snow from her leg. "I'm working, House. I can't entertain you right now."

"You said you were done at six." He shoves the sleeve of his coat up his arm and makes a show of checking his watch. "It's six."

She sighs, feeling her resolve start to loosen. She's probably not his first choice of holiday companionship either, but it seems neither of them have much in the way of options. But still… "You're a doctor, too," she feels compelled to point out in her own defense. "You know the schedule is just a suggestion. It's not carved in stone."

"I used to be a doctor," he reminds her, scowling. "Forget it. I'll find something on my own." He turns away from her and begins to make his way down the slippery sidewalk, back in the direction from which he arrived.

Damn it. She shouldn't have said that. His medical career had been everything to him; it has to be killing him, not having his puzzles anymore. "Wait. House, wait!" She chases after him and grabs his arm. "I'm sorry. Look, it's been a rough day, but I'm just about finished, and I'd love some company. I know somewhere we can get a traditional Christmas dinner. Come on, turkey, potatoes, stuffing, cranberries…how can you pass that up?"

These things can go either way with House. Either he'll be as quick to forgive as he was to anger – probably because the anger was just a show to start with and he hadn't really cared at all – or he could nurse a grudge indefinitely and beyond the rational. She holds her breath waiting to see which it will be.

He shrugs.

She takes that as a positive.

"Just let me get my stuff," she says, smiling for the first time that day.


	4. Chapter 4

She takes him to a small family restaurant a few blocks from the hospital.

The dining room is nearly full, with patrons in booths around the perimeter of the room and at tables scattered throughout the middle. Each table is topped with a red cloth and a fat vanilla candle standing in a bowl surrounded with raw cranberries. There is a fire burning in the little stone fireplace beside the hostess stand; stockings hanging from the mantle are labelled in glitter with the names of the wait staff. A Christmas tree decorated white, red, and silver glows from the other end of the room and Christmas music can just be heard over the cheerful chatter of the diners.

"They always open for Christmas dinner," Cameron explains after they've been seated. "They get a lot of staff from the hospital, police officers, other single people who have to work today and don't want to go home and cook for themselves. I found it my first year here, before I met Tim."

"Your husband," House says, plucking a roll from the basket the hostess provided.

Though it's a statement, she takes it as a question and nods in the affirmative. "Ex-husband, but yes."

He slathers butter from a small packet onto his roll. "Where did you meet?" He raises his eyebrows as he shoves a piece of bread in his mouth.

Small talk coming from House is always cause for concern and caution, but she answers anyway. What the hell. "He was a patient, actually. Came in after a car crash. Nothing serious, just abrasions and contusions." She pauses, waiting for the jab at her professionalism she knows is coming.

"But he liked your bedside manner?" he asks with a lewd wink.

She rolls her eyes. "Something like that. We were married less than six months later. I was already pregnant with Megan." It's a pattern with Tim, she's come to discover. He falls hard and fast and needs instant commitment no matter the cost. He'd done it with Cameron, though she hadn't known it at the time, dumping his current girlfriend to pursue the doctor he'd just met. And he'd done it once again with the pretty young teacher at Megan's kindergarten.

While she would never regret having Megan, she could have saved herself some heartache if she'd given their relationship some time to mature before they married. Maybe she would have seen beneath the surface to the selfish, immature man he really was. On the other hand, she'd known Robert Chase for years before they got involved and eventually married, and look how that turned out. Maybe you just never really know anyone.

House pops the last of his roll into his mouth. After he finishes chewing, he speaks again. "I think that brings us full circle. You're divorced. Why?" He rests his elbow on the table and his chin on his upturned palm, waiting pseudo-patiently.

She knew this was coming. She may as well tell him, or he'll never stop asking. Or worse, he'll turn to some other method of finding out. Snooping through her belongings, or tracking down Tim and asking him himself.

She's saved from responding by the arrival of their meals. The waitress sets their plates in front of them and House nearly dives into his, impertinent question forgotten, at least for now.

All the restaurant serves on Christmas Day is turkey and sides: potatoes and vegetables, stuffing and cranberries, but she can't imagine why anyone would want anything else. The turkey is done to perfection, moist and crispy. The potatoes are fluffy, the stuffing is savoury, the cranberries are the perfect blend of sour and sweet. The vegetables are, well, vegetables, but they're cooked and seasoned just right and even House eats them with enthusiasm.

They finish their meals mostly in silence, only trading occasional words of appreciation over the food. The waitress returns just as she's dabbing her mouth with her napkin. They both order coffee and pumpkin pie, House's with extra whipped cream, and then she decides she can stall no longer.

"I'm divorced because my husband fell in love with our daughter's twenty-five year old kindergarten teacher," she volunteers before he can ask again. "Funnily enough, I couldn't stay married to him after that. Not that he was really giving me a choice."

"Idiot," House says after a brief pause. He accepts his pie and coffee from the waitress. "Not you," he tells her at the young woman's surprised look.

"I beg your pardon?" Cameron asks.

"He's an idiot. Why do you always marry idiots?" He sounds almost disgusted.

She stares. Was there maybe an inside-out and upside-down compliment in there somewhere? Best not to ask, because he'll never admit it even if there was. She goes for the joke instead. "Well, at least I picked a rich idiot this time."

He nods. "There is that. So how is old Chasey-boy these days, anyway?"

She blinks at the quick subject change. "Oh, ah, fine as far as I know. I haven't seen or spoken to him since…well…since your funeral. We're not in touch or anything, but I hear stuff from Foreman. He's remarried. His wife had twins last year. And he's got your old job at PPTH. Same office and everything."

He nods again, poking at his pie. "Good. Best one for it. Well, second best, but the first best vanished into ER hell never to be seen again." He takes a large bite.

She smiles. At one time she would have tried to defend her career choices to him. Now she's just happy to know that somewhere in there he's proud of her. Maybe not in her choices, but in her abilities and, she suspects, in her willingness to walk away. Though he may have a point about her choices. "I miss it sometimes," she admits. "Being with one patient from start to finish. The challenge in finding the right diagnosis. I'm actually in negotiations with our board to start a similar department here."

He gives her a look of interested surprise.

"I've been thinking about it for a long time actually," she elaborates. "A lot of cases come through the ER that I would have referred to you in the old days. Here they just go to whatever specialty seems most likely. Sometimes I get it right, other times… Well, I just wish I had more time to figure it out. Most of the time I never even find out what happens to them. It…I don't like it. It's that caring thing again; you know me." She grins self-deprecatingly as he snorts. "Before fairly recently, I didn't think I would have the time to devote to getting a department up and running, even if the board would go for the idea. But now…" She breathes deeply and closes her eyes for a moment before continuing. "Now, with my daughter at her father's every other week, not only do I have the time, I need the distraction."

Distraction. She can see he understands the word, the need.

She shrugs and picks up her coffee mug. It's something.

When they're finished with their dessert, the waitress brings their bill along with two candy canes. She can't help but remember the first Christmas she worked for him and when she looks over and sees the gleam in his eyes, she knows he remembers too. The look on his face gives away his evil plan and before he can say the words, she beats him to the punch. "Candy canes? Look what she brought you House! The perfect Christmas treat for a cripple!"

He actually laughs out loud and the waitress looks so horrified that she wants to tell her it's just an inside joke, but then, that would ruin it, wouldn't it?

"Atta girl," he says, with something that sounds like pride.

She grins.


	5. Chapter 5

The drive home from the restaurant is spent in companionable silence and House settles wordlessly in front of the piano when they arrive back at Cameron’s.  It looks to her like he spent most of his day there as well; the general area is littered with half-empty coffee cups, crumb-strewn plates and rumpled sheet music.  She wonders how long it’s been since he had the opportunity to play.  From what little he’s told her of his life since losing Wilson, years doesn’t seem unlikely.

He’s moved on from Christmas carols to slow and sultry jazz but her limited knowledge of the genre doesn’t allow her to place the piece he’s chosen.  She lingers in the vicinity, collecting his dirty dishes, straightening knick-knacks, listening and watching.

His face is impassive as he plays, giving no clue as to what’s going on inside his head.  His eyes are at half-mast, his lips together, not smiling, but not frowning, and his head moves in sync with his hands.  She wishes she could tell what he’s thinking.  She still doesn’t even know why he’s here, at her home or in Chicago at all; how long he’s planning on staying; or anything else about the current life of the eccentric man seated in front of her.  At dinner it seemed almost like old times, with the teasing sarcasm it took her so many years to understand, the prying questions, and the familiar undercurrents of the inexplicable connection they’ve always shared.  But still, in so many ways, he’s a stranger to her now.

This man, the one who takes so much pleasure from music, she doesn’t know him at all.  Of course she’d known he played; she’d seen the piano in his home the rare times she’d been there, and she’d even heard him play with the musical savant patient they’d had once, but she hadn’t realised how important music is to him.  She knows, or knew, him as a doctor, as a boss, as a patient, and even, in an odd sort of way, as a friend.  But she doesn’t really know him as the man he is inside.  The only person who probably ever did is dead.  What must it feel like to be completely and utterly alone in the world with not one person who really knows you?

She has a fair idea, actually.  Since Tim, there’s no one left in her life to cast in that role either.  There are people she loves, certainly, but her daughter is too young for confidences, her brother too far away, her parents too much her parents, still seeing her as the child she was and not the woman she’s become.  She’s moved around too much to have developed any real, long-term friendships. 

Well.  Maybe she and House have something in common. 

She watches his fingers slide across the keys, as easily as if they were merely moving to the music rather than making it.

 “Sit,” he grumbles, jarring her from her thoughts.  “You’re lurking.  It’s annoying.”

And he’s right, she had been, so after taking the dirty dishes to the kitchen, she sits in the big armchair closest to the piano, closes her eyes, and listens to him play.

It’s nice having him here and, for now at least, she’s glad she’s not alone.

He’s gone, the piano silent, when she awakens, still curled up in the overstuffed chair.  The afghan from the sofa has been thrown haphazardly over her, but it hasn’t held off the chill in the air and she shivers as she sits up.  The house is dark except for the Christmas tree lights still shining from the corner, casting red, yellow and green lights on walls and floor around the tree.

She glances at the clock on the wall above the piano as she stands, surprised to find it’s after midnight.  She had been more tired than she thought.  House must have given up on her company and gone to bed.

Yawning, she walks over to the tree to unplug the lights; in her mind she’s already climbing into her soft, warm bed and opening the novel on her bedside table.  Despite the fact that Christmas Day is over, the floor under her tree is still scattered with presents, awaiting Megan’s return next week.  She moves them aside to reach the plug.

Moves them aside.  She pauses.  The presents hadn’t been blocking the outlet when she’d put them there that morning before work.

A quick inventory reveals a gift she’s never seen before; one that is not addressed to her daughter but to Cameron herself.  It’s a heavy one, she discovers when she picks it up, hard and rectangular.  It’s wrapped haphazardly in her own shiny, red Christmas paper and topped with one of her own handmade bows. He, because the identity of the mystery gift-giver is clear, must have searched through her bedroom closet to find them.  She’ll growl at him for that later.  Right now, she just wants to know what’s inside.  She’s always been a kid when it comes to presents, and aside from a gift card to her favourite clothing store from her brother and a perfunctory check from her parents, this is the only gift she’s getting this year.  There’s a white envelope taped to wrapping paper with her name scrawled in pencil in his familiar, angular handwriting.  She pulls it off and rips it open.

_Cameron_ , the note inside reads.  _For your new department.  You need it more than me.  Thanks.  GH._

There are erasure marks under his initials as though he had meant to elaborate but changed his mind, or couldn’t find the words.  Thanks for letting him stay, she presumes, but one never knows with House.

She sets the note aside and rips into the package.

It’s a book, an old one, bound in brown cloth.  A first edition if she’s not mistaken, and she’s not because she knows this particular book well.  _A Clinical Text-Book of Medical Diagnosis for Physicians and Students, Based on the Most Recent Methods of Examination_ , by Oswald Vierordt, the cover proclaims.  It was a fixture in House’s office, sometimes on his desk, sometimes on the bookshelf behind it.  She’d seen him reading it many times and she’d flipped through it herself a time or two.

She opens the book to the preface and reads, whispering the words aloud. “I have here, as well as in my teaching, taken pains to emphasize that, besides availing ourselves of the constantly- increasing finer methods of diagnosis, the simple use of our senses, especially of the unaided eye, must not be forgotten. Still more the manifold labors with the microscope and in the laboratory ought not to permit the physician to forget that a preparation or a chemical reaction is not enough for a diagnosis, but that the whole organism must always be brought under consideration. In other words, in diagnosis as well as therapeutics this rule is imperative : We must individualize the case.”

She closes the book and smiles.  The author’s words are no less true now than they were in 1891.  And they neatly sum up the reasons she wants to start a Diagnostics Department of her own.

What a wonderful gift!  She knows she’ll treasure it always, not only for what it is, but for who gave it to her.  She tucks the note between the pages of the book and rises, intent on thanking him immediately if he’s still awake in his room.  She walks quickly from the living room and into the hall, peering into the darkness to see if there’s any light coming from under his door.

There is not. 

There is not, both because his door is not shut and because his lights are not on. 

There is not, because he’s not there.

She enters the room and flicks on the light switch.  No House.  No bag, no belongings.  No sign he was ever there in the first place.

He’s gone.

And she’s alone again.


	6. Chapter 6

She stares out the window, hands curled into balls in her lap, fingernails biting into her palms. When she can no longer see the lights of the runway below, she closes her eyes and breathes deeply.

Until today, she's never been afraid of flying.

"Business or pleasure?" her seatmate asks, a pleasant looking man with shaggy brown hair and smudged eyeglasses. She opens her eyes and stares at him uncomprehendingly until he elaborates. "Why are you travelling? I mean, obviously it's none of my business, but I always find it a little strange to sit three inches from someone for an entire flight and not say anything at all, so I went for the cliché." He smiles tentatively. "But of course, if you'd rather I just shut up, I wouldn't blame you a bit."

Instantly, she feels guilty for making him self-conscious. He was just being friendly. "No, no, I'm sorry," she says. "It's okay. You just stumped me, is all. It's neither. It's…complicated." She forces a return smile and offers her hand. "I'm Allison."

"Jeff." He shakes her hand, turning slightly in his seat as he does so. He's attractive, she notes, in a geeky, sci fi sort of way. On any other flight, she'd be pleased for the distraction, for a pleasant way to pass the time. She might have even offered her phone number; she's single now, after all.

"I'm going to see some people I used to know," she hears herself explaining. "I used to live in Jersey. I haven't been back in a while and I don't really want to be back now, but I'm looking for… something. I'm hoping someone here can help me find it."

It's close to the truth.

"I hope you find what you're looking for," he says kindly.

She hopes so too.

* * *

The hospital looks just the same: the same potholes in the parking lot, the same uninspired colour on the walls, the same faux wood grandeur in the Dean of Medicine's office. Different Dean though, and she's grateful for small favours.

"It's good to see you, Cameron," he says.

"It's good to see you too, Foreman." She pulls back from her friend's bear hug and looks up at his smiling face. "It's been too long." Perhaps strangely, given the ups and downs of their professional relationship, Foreman is the only one from Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital she's still in touch with. They email with semi-regularity, but this is the first time she's seen him since House's funeral.

He looks older, more distinguished, almost professorial. He's heavier, just a little, and there's gray in his goatee. It suits him.

She follows him over to his desk and takes a seat in one of the guest chairs while he settles in across from her. It's strange seeing him there, sitting behind what will always be, to her, Lisa Cuddy's desk. She wonders, not for the first time recently, how the older woman is,  _where_  she is, whether she knows anything. It's doubtful, given how everything turned out, but it's another line of enquiry, though one she hopes she won't have to pursue. They had never been friends, she and Cuddy.

"So, what brings you to Princeton?" Foreman is asking, bringing her back to the present. "You didn't say on the phone."

She's practiced her pretense, and like most lies, it has its basis in truth. "Well," she explains, "I need your help. Yours and Chase's, if he'll see me."

Foreman looks concerned, but nods. "I'm sure he will. Why, what's up? Is everything okay?"

"Oh, fine, yes. It's good news actually," she says. "I've been given the go-ahead to start a Diagnostics Department at my hospital in Chicago. And I figured who better than my old partners in crime to bounce ideas with– what works, what doesn't, that kind of thing. I was hoping the three of us could have dinner and brainstorm."

A grin splits her former colleagues face. "That's great, Cameron. Congratulations! It's about time you got back into serious medicine. I'm happy to help. I'm sure Chase will be too."

_Now or never, Allison_ , she tells herself. It's time for the real reason she's here. She returns his grin and then deliberately lets it slide from her face. "I just wish House were here, you know? His input would have been invaluable."

She watches Foreman closely as she invokes their former mentor's name, watches for any sign that he knows the man isn't really dead: any nervous ticks or tells, darting eyes, licking of lips, fidgeting fingers. Anything at all to indicate he's lying or knows more than he's saying. Ironically, it was House himself who taught her what to look for.

But there's nothing. Foreman just laughs. "You think that old son of a bitch would have helped you?" He pauses, then shrugs. "Well, maybe he would've helped  _you_. He always did have a bit of a soft spot for you. But anyone else, forget it." He snorts.

_Bitter_ , she thinks. He's never gotten over House not seeing him as God's gift to medicine. If she were talking to anyone but Foreman, his words would trigger suspicion. Most people don't like to speak ill of the dead that way. But with Foreman it wouldn't matter. His opinion of House was no secret, and not even death could temper it.  _He doesn't know anything_ , she decides.

* * *

She sets the brush down on the bathroom counter and picks up her long lavender scarf, winding it several times around her neck and fluffing it into shape. Dinner with her second husband is not exactly her favourite way to spend an evening, but it's definitely the best way to determine if Chase has seen or heard from House. Foreman might have possibly been able to conceal his reaction from her, but not Chase. If he has anything to hide, she'll see it written all over his face.

Shrugging at her appearance reflected in the mirror, she adds a little lip gloss and decides she'll do. It's not like this is a date. Foreman will be there as well, and Chase is remarried after all.

Leaving the bathroom, she crosses the hotel room to retrieve her purse, pausing to run her fingers over the lettering on the cover of the book sitting beside it on the desk. Impulsively, she opens the front cover and pulls out the handwritten note from inside it.

_For your new department. You need it more than me. Thanks. GH._

_You need it more than me._

In the months that have passed since House abruptly vanished from her guest room, the words that originally seemed like a wry statement of fact accompanying a thoughtful gift, have taken on a more ominous tone.

He can't have, she tells herself for the thousandth time. He wouldn't. He's just being House. He's a loner and he's gotten used to moving around, answering to no one. Had she really thought he'd stay in touch?

It's a logical explanation, one she clung to for a long time.

But in the end, she couldn't escape the idea that one of the early warning signs for suicide is giving away one's prized possessions - possessions like a rare first edition textbook from a profession one loves but can no longer participate in.

She has to find him. She just hopes she's not too late.


	7. Chapter 7

"I'm sorry," Chase apologises, as his phone rattles against the table for the third time in ten minutes. "I think she's uncomfortable with this." He nods sheepishly in Cameron's direction.

Of course she is; Cameron understands completely. Chase's wife is a new mother. It's a difficult time in a marriage and to have your husband meeting his ex-wife for dinner… well, she understands. She's sorry for any discomfort she's causing this woman she's never met. She smiles apologetically at her ex-husband from across the table, but he doesn't see her, his eyes on the small screen of his phone, two fingers pecking out a text message. Looking down at her menu, she reads about dishes she has no interest in ordering.

"So," Foreman says after an uncomfortable beat. "Tell us about your new department, Cameron."

Closing the menu and setting it aside, she shrugs. "It's about like yours. Similar goals. Smaller, though. Just me actually, at least to start, but I'm hopeful I can make a difference."

Foreman laughs, eyes shining. "Some things never change."

"What?" Chase asks, setting his phone back on the table and looking from Foreman to Cameron and back.

"This one," Foreman says, nodding at her. "Always out to fix the world."

She can feel herself blushing. She didn't think she could do that anymore. It must be something about New Jersey that makes her feel so young and naive. Or maybe it's just the company she's keeping. Shaking her head, she reaches for her water glass.

Chase grins at her. "Yeah, that's our Cameron. House would say..."

Her head whips up and the glass, cold and damp with condensation, slips from her hand and tips away from her. Six hands reflexively fly towards it, but it's she who rights it again, only after it spills half its contents across the table. "Shit," she curses.

"It's okay; I got it," Chase says, mopping up the water with his napkin. "No harm done." He signals the waiter for another napkin while she curses herself for her clumsiness and bad timing. What? What would House say?

"House would say I'm an idiot," she says, desperately trying to bring the subject back around. She forces what she hopes looks like a wistful smile. "But I hope he'd be pleased that I'm finally getting out of the ER."

"I'm sure he would be, Cameron," Foreman says, patting her on the shoulder. "So, the steak is good here," he announces to the table. "What are you guys having?"

* * *

A complete waste of time, she thinks as she unlocks the door to hotel room and walks in. Instantly she feels badly for thinking it; a pleasant evening with old friends is never a waste of time, but she hadn't, however, learned a thing. Neither Foreman nor Chase had given the slightest indication that they knew House was still alive, no matter how often she brought up his name. And she'd brought him up a lot. So often, in fact, that her ex-husband had been getting annoyed, his responses to her questions becoming progressively shorter and sharper, the harder she tried to keep the topic of conversation on House. Even Foreman had started looking at her suspiciously, so midway through their entrees, she'd dropped the subject completely and asked Chase if she could see pictures of his new twin boys. The remainder of the evening had passed pleasantly, if not informatively.

So, she's hit a dead end. She knows no more than she did when she left Chicago.

Dropping her purse on the desk, she glances at the digital alarm clock beside the bed. It's just after ten o'clock and she swears softly when she realises it's too late for her to call Megan. The little girl would have gone to bed hours ago. She'd spoken to her that morning to tell her she was going out of town for a few days, so at least Megan hadn't been expecting another call, but it would have really improved her day to hear her daughter's sweet voice. She'll have to make sure she's up early enough to call her in the morning before school.

After changing for bed and brushing her teeth, she retrieves her laptop from her suitcase, and climbs onto her hotel bed. After the computer boots up, she quickly checks her email and then opens the document she's been using to record her thoughts and plans for her search. Finding Chase and Foreman's names on the list of people she wanted to talk to, she adds her observations from dinner. Three words are sufficient to convey her conclusion: They know nothing.

She reads the remainder of the names on the list. There aren't many; House didn't have a lot friends or relatives, and of those, the list of ones she could imagine him contacting was even shorter. His mother. Stacy Warner. Lisa Cuddy. And Dr. Nolan, his psychiatrist. Below those names, she adds two more: Chris Taub and Remy Hadley. The two doctors were longshots at best, but since she's here, it wouldn't hurt to talk to them. She could come up with some pretense for seeing them. She briefly considers the last batch of fellowship candidates, but since she doesn't even know their names, she can't see how that would work. In any case, she doesn't think House would remember their names either.

So, Mrs. House, Stacy, Cuddy, or Nolan? The only one of the four she can even fathom contacting is Mrs. House. And logically, she's the one most likely to know something. House loved his mom. If anyone out there knows he's still alive, it would be her.

So, she'll check in with Taub and Remy tomorrow, just to cross them off the list, and then track down Mrs. House. Hopefully she already knows her son is still alive, because if she doesn't… Cameron, as a mother herself, can't even imagine the grief. She doesn't want to do or say anything that will add to it.

Plans set in her mind, she closes her laptop, turns off the light and lays down.

She does not sleep.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I got sucked into another fandom. I will finish this though. Only one more chapter to go.

Another waste of time, she decides as she unlocks the driver's side door of her rental car and climbs in, but that's nothing more or less than she expected. And this time there wasn't even the side benefit of catching up with an old friend, because while she and Chris Taub had been cordial during the short time they'd worked together, they certainly hadn't been friends. She had presented him with the same pretense she had used on Chase and Foreman, but to no avail. Not only did he have no visible reaction to House's name, he hadn't even offered any useful suggestions for her diagnostics department. The man had very clearly washed his hands of that entire period of his life.

Good for him, she supposes, but less than useless to her.

She's been unable to track down Remy Hadley, so that idea has been put on hold for now, meaning House's mother is next up on her list. She'd done a bit of Internet research before leaving the hotel that morning, made a few phone calls, and had eventually determined that Mrs. House was now living in a retirement community a couple of hours away, having moved there following her second husband's death two years ago.

She's rehearsed her cover story, a variation on the same theme she's used on everyone else, but with the added twist that she's trying to track down some old case notes as a demonstration to her superiors of the effectiveness of House's methods, and perhaps Mrs. House has some of her son's former belongings? It's thin, but it's the best she can come up with. Either she'll accept it, or she won't.

The drive is a pleasant one. Her GPS leads her down winding, old country roads, and while it's probably not the most efficient way to her destination, she enjoys the scenery and the solitude. She tunes the radio to a classic rock station in House's honor and the Stones remind her she can't always get what she wants. "Hopefully," she tells them, "I get what I need." Whatever that may be.

It's just past two when she pulls into the driveway of the tiny bungalow Blythe House now calls home. The house is blue with white shutters and the small front step is just large enough for two wicker chairs and a planter full of geraniums. It looks pleasant. She imagines Blythe is probably quite content here. She just hopes she doesn't spoil her tranquility.

Turning off the engine, she opens the door and climbs out of the car. With just a few short steps, she's at the front step, a few more and she's at the door. After a brief moment of indecision, she reaches out and pushes the doorbell.

"Hello there," a voice comes from behind her. "Can I help you?"

Startled, she whirls around to find Blythe House behind her, holding a small trowel in her gardening glove clad hands. When she sees Cameron, her head tilts to the side, examining her, as though trying to place her face. It's an expression so reminiscent of House she wants to laugh. Or cry.

"I know you," Mrs. House says. "You're…you used to work for my son. Is that right?"

"Yes," she says. "My name is Allison Cameron. I'm a doctor. I was one of your son's fellowship candidates, oh, quite a few years ago now. But we met a couple of times."

"Oh, of course dear. Yes, I remember you now. Greg thought very highly of you." She sets the shovel down on the doorstep and pulls off her gardening gloves, wiping her hands on her jeans. "What brings you all the way out to Pondside Retirement Community?"

Cameron recites her cover story, somewhat haltingly, because she hates lying to this nice woman who probably just misses her only child. "So, I was hoping you might have some of House's old case files," she finishes, watching Mrs. House carefully for any signs of prevarication.

Blythe just shakes her head. "Oh, I'm sorry dear. I wish I could help you, but I don't have any of Greg's medical things. All of that went to James after the fire." She stops, looking off to the side for a moment and Cameron observes her closely. Is she composing herself due to the tragedy of the situation, or is she trying to hide a lie? She can't really tell. "Now that James is gone too," House's mother continues after a moment, "I have no idea where it all would be. But if you want to come in and have a look through what I do have, just in case there's anything helpful, you're more than welcome."

Cameron shakes her head. That's the last thing she wants to do; she's intruded here enough. "Oh, no, I couldn't. He'd probably haunt me for going through his things. I should just be going. Thank you so much for your time."

The older woman smiles. "You may be right about that. But please, won't you stay for a few minutes? It's so seldom that I get an opportunity to talk about Greg with someone who actually knew him. Sit with me for a while. I'll get us some iced tea."

She sounds so hopeful, that Cameron can't bring herself to refuse, though she's already regretting having come here at all. She still has no idea whether Blythe is telling the truth, but she just can't bring herself to question her further in case she really doesn't know anything. How awful it must be to believe your child dead. If it were Megan, she doesn't know how she would ever be able to cope.

"Of course," she replies. "I can't stay long; I have a couple hours' drive ahead of me, but a glass of iced tea would be wonderful." How is she going to be able to leave here without telling this lovely woman that her son is still alive? She vows then and there, that if she ever sees House again, she'll drag him by the ear to see his mother.

She's settled herself into one of the white wicker chairs on the front step when Blythe returns with their drinks.

"So, I have to ask," she says as she accepts one of the glasses. "Did House actually tell you thought highly of me?" Somehow, she doubts it

"Oh, good heavens, dear," Blythe says as she takes the other seat. "You knew my son. Of course he didn't say it in so many words, but I could tell. He was very annoyed that you didn't finish out your fellowship. Went on and on about the time he wasted teaching you, but what he was really upset about was that he thought you were wasting your talent."

She nods. Leaving House when she did is actually one of her deepest regrets. Who knows what direction her life would have gone had she not quit her fellowship to start a new life with Chase. So many things could have turned out differently. But then she might never have had Megan, which is an unbearable thought, and in any case, what's done is done.

She takes a sip of her iced tea.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, totally forgot that I was posting this here too until someone left kudos. Here's the last chapter if you didn't already find it elsewhere. Heh. Thanks for reading :)

The drive back to Princeton is not nearly as enjoyable as the drive there had been. Her conversation with Blythe has subdued her significantly. She can't even begin to fathom what it's like for this other woman to survive each day thinking she's outlived her only child. She wants so badly to lift that burden for her: the truth danced on her tongue for the entire visit, threatening to fly from her lips and spill into the space between them. The only thing that kept it contained was her continued fear that while House had indeed been alive six months ago, she has no way of knowing if this is still the case. She can't bring herself to give his mother hope without a guarantee that it wouldn't be false.

Exhausted, emotionally and physically, she returns to her hotel room. Following an all too brief phone conversation with her daughter, she climbs into bed with a plate of room service French fries and her laptop.

Bringing up her Word document, she updates her notes for today's activities and then stares hopelessly at the remaining people on her list: a psychiatrist, bound by doctor/patient confidentiality; a sick, self-destructive woman who may even be dead herself; and two of House's ex-girlfriends, neither of whom she knows how to contact even if she wanted to, which she most decidedly does not.

Yeah, this search is looking promising.

Closing the laptop in frustration, she sets it on the nightstand and lays back against the headboard, picking up a lukewarm French fry, coating it in ketchup, and then setting it back down again, uneaten.

What the  _hell_  is she doing here?

House is an adult. For better or for worse, his choices are his own, and more and more she's questioning her own motives in conducting this search. Are her fears for House, while not entirely illogical, mainly just a cover? Are they simply an excuse to chase after an old dream that should be long dead and buried right alongside House's empty coffin?

Her life is in Chicago: her child, her career, and the future she needs to figure out. It may not be the life she was hoping for when she left Princeton, it may not be the one she envisioned as a child, and it may not even one that many people would envy, but it's honest and it's real and it's  _hers_. And no one but her is going to be able to shape it into something that will make her truly happy. For once in her damned life, she needs to deal with her problems instead of running away from them. It's what she always does, and it's what she's doing now, except this time instead of chasing after something new and different, she's chasing after the past.

It's time to go home.

* * *

She checks out early the following morning and it's raining as she carries her belongings to the car, the wind whipping her hair across her face. Her last-minute return flight leaves at noon, but she's got one more stop to make before she goes to the airport.

The cemetery looks as a cemetery should: gray and misty and forlorn. The grass has been recently cut and it sticks to her sandaled feet as she wanders around, looking for the right place.

She finds him near the back, resting beside a wrought-iron fence lined with wild rose bushes. His stone of black marble is carved simply with a caduceus, his dates and name: James Evan Wilson, MD.

She hadn't come back for his funeral. She doesn't have a good excuse; she doesn't really even have a bad one. She just hadn't. Couldn't. Couldn't attend another funeral for another mentor within the space of six short months. She had figured Wilson, of all people, would understand.

"Hi Wilson," she says now, pulling her sweater more tightly around herself. The rain has eased, but the wind is chilling her to the bone. "I'm sorry I haven't come before now."

She pauses, as though waiting for an answer, but when one comes, it's not from the dead man she addressed.

"I don't think he minds." The voice comes from behind her, the sound of his approach hidden by the wind gusting through the trees.

She jumps, but doesn't turn. She knows who it is. Really, she should have been expecting him.

"House."

"Mom said you were looking for me."

She turns around to find him watching her from beneath an old oak tree. He looks much healthier than he had the last time she'd seen him: a couple of pounds heavier, enough that he doesn't look sick anymore, and he's got a bit of a tan, as though he's been spending more time outdoors. He's neatly dressed in a newish t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Someone has clearly been looking after him, and she bets she knows just who that person is.

"She knows? Are you kidding me!" she exclaims. "The whole time I was talking to her, feeling like an asshole for not telling her that her son is alive, and she already knows?"

"Of course she knows," he says. "And she also knows that you know, so when she invited you to stay for a glass of tea, it was so she could try and figure out what you were up to, since you were so obviously lying to her. Don't lie to my mother, Cameron. It never works out well for anyone." He shudders.

She glares at him and without another word, turns away, intending to storm off to her car. She can't believe she's wasted so much time and money trying to find him and he's been here all along, clearly fine, and living with his mother!

"Goddamned idiot," she curses herself under her breath as she walks. "Never going to fucking learn."

"Hey! Cameron! Hey, wait up," he calls, limping after her. His long legs allow him to catch her easily; he grabs her arm and jerks her to a halt.

"Did you really think I'd let my mother think I was dead?" he demands. "What the hell kind of person do you think I am?"

"The kind who lets people think they're dead! Exactly that kind!" She pulls her arm free.

"Well sure. Other people. Not my  _mother_." He sounds horrified.

"Oh, okay then. Just me. And Chase and Foreman. Or do they know you're alive too? Exactly how many people have I made a fool of myself in front of these past few days, huh House?"

"No one," he says, wiping the rain from his face with the back of his hand. "The only people who knew originally were Wilson and, because I'm not a monster, my mother. And now you. That's it. But while we're on the subject, what the hell did you think you were doing, going around questioning people? Are you  _trying_  to get me found out?"

"What? No! Of course not."

"Because you know, I  _will_  go back to jail if the police find out."

She does know that, but it had seemed an acceptable risk at the time, or at least she had been able to convince herself it was.

"I was worried about you," she says now, shaking her head. "You disappeared so suddenly, didn't say goodbye, gave me your book, I…I was worried you might have done something stupid." She whirls around and walks away from him until she's back in front of Wilson's grave. "Damn it," she whispers under her breath. "Damn it."

She doesn't realise he's moved to stand directly behind her until he speaks. "You thought I was going to kill myself," he says. It's not a question.

She nods in the affirmative, and then qualifies. "Well, not so much thought as feared. Giving away prize possessions, it's one of the signs, you know."

His hands land on her shoulders from behind and he leans down until his mouth is close to her ear.

"If I was going to do that," he says lowly, "I would have done it when Wilson died. Think about it. What more did I have to live for? I was already legally dead. My career was over. My best friend was gone. It would've made perfect sense to end it all."

"But you didn't."

She can't see him, but somehow she knows he's shaking his head.

"Nope."

"Why?"

He laughs sharply, and drops his hands from her shoulders, moving to stand beside her. "Why didn't I kill myself?" He smirks down at her. "One could take that question the wrong way."

She flushes. "Obviously I didn't mean I think you should have."

"Obviously."

Then, after several long, silent seconds: "I watched him die, you know."

"I…no," she says. "I guess I assumed, but no, I didn't know."

"It was ugly. Death always is. But Wilson, he deserved something better. He shouldn't have died emaciated and in pain in a crappy hotel room in Atlantic City. It wasn't fair."

"Life isn't fair."

"Neither is death. Everyday thousands of good people die in horrific ways not of their own choosing. They don't get to decide how they go. Why the hell should I?"

He falls silent as she considers this.

"But, the book…"

"It was just a gift, Cameron. Don't read more into it than there was."

Ah, well. She does do that, doesn't she? It's a long term failing that always seems to get the better of her when she's dealing with this man. She shrugs. What can she do but believe him? Sometimes a gift is just a gift.

"So what are you doing now?" she asks him. "Generally speaking."

"Spending some time with my mother. She's in pretty good health, but she's not getting any younger. I'm sticking pretty close, for now."  _Until she's gone_ , he doesn't say, but she hears anyway.

"I help her in the garden," he continues. "She makes me eat my vegetables. I've got her hooked on Prescription Passion. We're doing okay. The neighbours think I'm her nephew, her favourite sister's only son. That's what she told them. I'm sure they think I'm robbing her blind, but so far no one's said anything."

"Good. That's…good." And it is, she realises. She's found what she was looking for: assurance that he's doing okay. That's all she ever wanted. Or, almost all, at least. She still has one unanswered question left.

"House?"

"Mmm?"

"Why did you leave without saying goodbye?"

"Don't you think we've had enough goodbyes, Cameron? You'd just try and shake my hand again, and that never goes well."

She laughs.

No more goodbyes works for her.

 

 


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy sappy, out-of-character holiday fluff, you have come to the right place.

“ _Mom_!” Megan squeals in her ear, “Mom, wake up! _Santa_ ’s at the door!”

“What?” Cameron asks sleepily, eyes only half open. A quick glance at the clock confirms her suspicion that at a little after five, it’s way too early for them to be awake on her day off, and on Christmas Eve at that. They’ll be up early enough tomorrow. “Go back to bed honey; it was just a dream.”

“No, mom, listen!” Her seven-year-old daughter is practically vibrating with excitement. “He’s knocking! _Listen_!”

Megan dashes to the window and ducks under the curtains. “I can see him at the door, it’s Santa!”

Cameron struggles to sit up amid the tangled sheets and blankets, cocking her head as she listens. Sure enough, she hears a faint pounding coming from downstairs.

“Megan, honey, come get in Mommy’s bed, while I go see who’s at the door,” she says, sliding out of bed and pulling on her robe as she physically directs the little girl by the shoulders to her bed before pushing the curtains aside and peering out the window herself.

She can’t see much of the figure at her door below, but the black boots and bits of red she can discern through the trees do look a bit Santa-ish. It’s probably just the reflection of the Christmas lights.

“But Mom, I want to come too,” the little girl insists, taking a step toward the bedroom door, but a pointed look and an extended finger have her scrambling up on the big, rumpled bed, pulling the covers over her legs.

“I’ll be right back,” Cameron promises, hoping it’s the truth, and the pounding isn’t due to some kind of emergency.

Leaving the lights off, she eases her way downstairs, trying to stay out of the sightline of her early morning visitor through the narrow window next to the door. She wants to get a better look at who it is before deciding whether she wants to answer. At the bottom of the stairs, instead of approaching the door directly, she veers left into the family room and kneels on the couch in front of the window, inching aside the heavy drapes to peer out at the front doorstep.

A strangled half laugh, half groan escapes her as the identity of the knocker becomes clear. She really should have known. Shaking her head in bemusement, she rises from the couch and walks over to the door. Unlocking it, she pulls it open and stands with her hands on her hips staring up at the tall man wearing a Santa-red scarf and leaning against her doorjamb.

“House, do you have any idea what time it is?”

***

“How’s your mom?” Cameron asks, sliding a mug of coffee in front of her former boss.

He picks it up and gulps, mindless of the steam rising from the hot liquid. “Good. Fine. She’s gone to my aunt’s place for Christmas. Couldn’t think of a way to get out of it without worrying anyone and without letting them know that her son is a lot less dead than they think.”

Cameron nods, taking the seat across from him. “So you just thought you’d invite yourself to my Christmas?” she asks, sucking in her lips to hide a smile. Despite the early hour, it’s good to see him.

Megan, over her initial disappointment in their visitor’s lack of a white beard and large belly, twirls around the living room, House’s red knit scarf wrapped several times around her neck, the tasseled ends hanging down her back to her knees.

“Meggie, put that scarf back where found it, please,” Cameron requests.

House waves a hand. “It’s fine. Mom made it for me. Looks better on the kid.” He picks up his coffee and sips more gingerly this time as he examines his surroundings. “You moved,” he comments after a moment.

“Pretty observant for a dead guy.”

“Your other place was nicer. Where’s the piano?”

“My other place had double the mortgage payment and was way too big for just me and Meggie. And I let the piano go with the other house. There’s no room here and I don’t play anyway.”

He rolls his eyes. “ _I_ play.”

“ _You_ don’t live here. You don’t even visit.”

“Well I definitely won’t be now that you don’t have a piano.”

“Oh no,” Cameron deadpans, though the truth is she kind of wishes she did still have the piano. Listening to House play last Christmas had been one small joyous moment of reprieve in an otherwise dismal holiday season – her first without her daughter, thanks to divorce and split holidays.

But this year, Megan will be with her for Christmas and she’s been looking forward to creating some new holiday traditions just for her and her daughter. The idea of sharing them with House is a bit disconcerting, with or without piano accompaniment.

“The kid is here for Christmas this year?” he asks, as able as ever to read her thoughts.

She nods, wrapping her hands around her coffee mug. “It’s my turn.”

House looks down at his own coffee, turning the handle from one side to the other. “I don’t have to stay,” he says quietly, “if you’d rather not have me around her.” A beat passes before he looks up and waggles an eyebrow at her. “I’m told I’m not the best influence on the kiddies.”

She smiles in spite of her own unspoken misgivings. “You can stay as long as you behave. The first time I catch you teaching her to pick locks, you’re out on your ass.”

She turns in her chair. “Megan, come here, please.”

The little girl twirls over in their direction, long knit scarf trailing behind her. “Hmmm?” she asks, stopping in front of her mother with a little hop and a flourish of scarf.

“What would you think if my friend, um…” she pauses, glancing at House, not knowing what name he’s using these days.

“Mick,” he mouths.

She snorts and continues. “If my friend, _Mick_ …stayed here for a few days and had Christmas with us?”

Megan looks at House considering, then leans in and whisper-yells in her mother’s ear, as only a seven-year-old can. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Cameron coughs, flushing, as House smirks, crossing his arms across his chest and cocking his head, waiting.

“No honey,” she manages to say. “Just an old friend. We used to work together before you were born.”

“Okay,” Megan chirps. “Can I have some pancakes?”

***

Cameron loads the last of the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, adding a detergent tab and closing the door. The whoosh of water as the machine starts its cycle momentarily drowns out the electronic beeps and whirls coming from the living room where House and Megan are intensely competing in some kind of video game. Megan is jumping around in front of the television, controller in hand, while House lies sprawled across her couch, controller resting on his good leg. Every few seconds he flicks his wrist, causing cries of anguish and renewed bursts of energy from the little girl in front of him.

It’s an endearing scene that has Cameron stopping to observe, small smile playing at her lips. This had been her dream, once upon a time. It feels like a million years ago that her younger self had been working for House and naively hoping they might have some kind of future that could include scenes like this one. So much has happened since then. Who would ever have thought they’d be here, now - friends, or something like it.

“Are you going to stare, or are you going to play,” House demands, waving the controller in her direction and she blinks back to the present.  

“Play,” she decides, crossing the room and snatching it from his hand. “And kick your butt,” she adds, sending Megan off into fits of giggles.

***

Her bravado, as it turns out, is misplaced as House thoroughly wipes the floor with her, as Megan cheers him on, and then tosses his controller down and struggles to his feet.

“Need your car keys,” he announces, hand out.

“Pardon?” Cameron asks.

He rolls his eyes. “Please, Dr. Cameron, may I borrow your car for a couple of hours. I’ll be sure to have it home before dark.”

Her eyes narrow. “Do you even have a driver’s licence?”

“I expect they would have cancelled that when I, you know, _died_.”

Cameron winces and glances at Megan, who is standing in front of the television, intently trying to mimic some of House’s game winning manoeuvers.  “Shhhh,” she admonishes him. “She’ll hear you.”

“Oh sorry,” he says in a slightly louder than normal speaking voice. “Did you not want her to know about…?”

“Okay!” she interrupts. “Okay. Fine, take it. The keys are on the hook by the door. Please be careful,” she adds, without knowing why. He will be or he won’t be; making the suggestion won’t help either way.

He winks at her as he pulls on his coat and grabs the keys on his way out the door.

***

A couple of hours ends up being all day, and Megan is in bed by the time House returns, though she didn’t go easily or willingly, wanting to wait for her new friend Mick to return. Only the thought that she might accidentally stay up too late and Santa wouldn’t come convinced her to finally go to sleep. Cameron hadn’t had the heart to tell her that there was no guarantee House _would_ return. She’s fairly certain he won’t actually steal her car, but she can think of many ways he could have it returned to her without he, himself, coming back.

She’s sitting in the semi-darkened living room watching Die Hard while drinking tea and munching on Santa cookies, when she hears a car pull up. And then she hears another vehicle follow the first into her driveway: a louder, rumblier one. Setting her tea on the coffee table, she rises up on her knees on the couch and, for the second time that day, shoves aside the curtains to look outside.

Her jaw drops when she sees a large white cube van backing up to her garage door. Emblazoned on the side of the van are the words _Joe’s Music Emporium._

***

“I still can’t believe you did this,” Cameron repeats for at least the third or fourth time, as House lifts the fallboard of the black baby grand piano that now sits in front of her family room window.

“I can’t believe you’re still saying that.” He sits down on the bench and plays a short melody, head cocked, listening to the tones of the instrument. “This won’t wake the kid?”

She shakes her head. “Once she’s asleep, a freight train won’t wake her. And if by some chance she happens to wake on her own, she’ll never come downstairs tonight and risk ticking off Santa.”

Her couch has been pushed aside to make room for the piano and now sits at an odd angle, partially blocking the entrance to the foyer. She’ll rearrange things later when the Christmas tree comes down. For now, she closes the French door to muffle any sound drifting up the stairs and takes a seat.

“Why?” she asks as she picks up her tea and sips, cringing when she realises it’s now stone cold.

“I like pianos. I bought a piano. I’m storing it here. Do you have a problem with that?”

She sets the cup down and raises her hands in surrender. “No problems here. Just be aware that seven-year-olds aren’t known for leaving expensive instruments in pristine condition.”

He doesn’t even dignify the comment with a glance in her direction. They both know that isn’t something he would worry about. Instead his eyelids begin to droop as his fingers slide over the keys, first caressing lightly, then actually pressing down and Cameron recognises the first notes of _O Holy Night._

Despite her distinct lack of religion, it’s always been one of her favourite Christmas songs, just for the beauty of the music itself which almost makes her wish she could believe in the lyrics, if only for the duration of the song. She mouths the words silently, hearing a rich operatic tenor in her mind.

_A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,_

_For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn._

_Fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices!_

_O night divine, O night when Christ was born_

House moves seamlessly from one song to the next, lost in the music. It’s clear how much pleasure he gets from playing and Cameron is honored and moved to be able to be able to bear witness to this rare moment of true happiness in a life that has experienced far too little of it.

Leaning back, she closes her eyes, letting the joy and the music wash over her. She doesn’t know how long she stays like that, just enjoying her own private little concert, and some rare adult company, that it doesn’t even matter that there is no conversation. It’s maybe even better this way.

Her eyes fly open when House launches into _Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer_. She finds him twisted around, watching her over his shoulder as he plays. An easy grin spreads across her face as he winks at her and turns back around to finish the song. At the end of the song, his fingers drop into his lap, flexing, as the last notes fade away.

“Out of practice,” he says, turning around on the bench. “Fingers are tired. Got anything to drink?"

“Nothing alcoholic,” she says apologetically. “How about some cocoa? Or tea?”

He shakes his head and stands, leaning heavily on his cane. “Nah. Think I’ll just turn in.”

“It’s been a long day,” she agrees, rising and walking around the couch to the foyer door. All the bedrooms are upstairs in this new house. House will have to bunk here on the couch; that many stairs are now well beyond his capability. “I’ll leave you alone.” She smiles briefly, and starts to push the door open.

“Cameron,” he says from behind her.

“Hmm,” she turns back to find him only a couple of feet away.

“Thanks. For ah, keeping an old dead guy company.”

She reaches out and rests a hand on his arm. “My pleasure.” Rising up on tiptoes, she presses a light kiss to his scruffy cheek. “I enjoyed the music. And besides, you still look pretty good to me. You know, for an old dead guy.”

She drops back down on her heels and takes half a step backwards, but House’s hand catches her by her elbow and pulls her forward again.

Her stomach flips over and she finds she can’t breathe as she looks up into his bright blue eyes. He stares at her for what seems like years before slowly moving even closer to touch his lips to hers. His kiss is soft and undemanding, lasting barely a moment, and it seems like just as she recovers from the surprise enough to respond, he’s backing away again.

She raises her fingers to her lips, her eyes locked on his. “House, I…”

He leans in again, but this time instead of kissing her, he reaches behind her and pushes open the door. “Good night, Cameron.”

“Will you still be here in the morning?” she asks, before she can stop herself, immediately cursing the young fellowship student who lives in her memory for the insecure question.

He blows out a breath and looks to the floor and then off to the side. For a moment she thinks he won’t answer. But then he shrugs. “In the morning, we’ll both know.” And then with a hand on her hip, he gently guides her through the door and closes it behind her.

***

She's saddened but not surprised when he's gone in the morning, his borrowed blanket tossed haphazardly over the back of the couch, the pillow on the floor. Playing at happy family on Christmas morning just isn't who he is; she knows this. It isn't about her.

Megan's eyes are as wide as saucers when she dashes into to the family room. "Santa brought us a  _piano_?" she asks, awestruck.

Cameron smiles in spite of her disappointment. "No, honey. Mick bought it. It's his piano, but it's going to live here for now."

Megan has already lost interest, squealing at the pile of presents Cameron had carefully placed under the tree the night before.

There’s a note on the piano and a small gift-wrapped box. She unfolds the note first and reads.

_Contact Joe’s Music Emporium about lessons for the kid. It’s looked after, if she wants them._

_GH_

And underneath his initials, scrawled as if in afterthought:

_I’ll see you later._

Later. That could be tonight for dinner, or not until next Christmas Eve. One never knows with House, but she has a feeling it might be sooner than later. Smiling, she refolds the note and picks up the small present, taking it over to the couch. Sitting down and pulling House’s blanket over her lap, she carefully removes the wrapping paper to reveal a small jewellery box. The name of jewellery shop on the box is one she recognizes as being in Princeton; this is not a last-minute gift he picked up yesterday.  Opening it, she discovers a delicate silver charm bracelet with four dangling charms: a caduceus, a piano, a tiny cabin…no, a _house_ …and, providing a small touch of colour, a red and white striped candy cane. They are innocuous charms, easily explained to anyone who might notice and ask, but Cameron will always see them for what they really are – representations of one of the most important relationships in her life, a relationship she’d thought over many times, but that maybe… _maybe_ …is just beginning anew.

Fastening the bracelet around her wrist, she jingles it in the air, just once to watch the dancing charms, and then goes to join her daughter under the tree.


End file.
